


Wailagehd: Falling In Line

by notoriousjae



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: A lot of Kryptonian in this fic, Bisexual Female Character, But I couldn't help myself., Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Musicals, Past Kara Danvers/Mon-El, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, This is definitely a musical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousjae/pseuds/notoriousjae
Summary: “That didn’t answer my question.” Cat notes, legs carefully crossed as she watches a spine made of steel unravel and fray underneath the weight of an ocean. The girl always had far too expressive eyes for her own good. Or Cat's. “Don't repeat what your cousin said. Do you believe in them? These...unstoppable pairs? These soulmates--theseWaila?”Supergirl shifts but it's Kara who doesn’t drop the gaze, ever fearless and calm. Cat can hear the faintest dent of fingers pressing too hard into the frame of a couch--carving moons and red suns--damage that will be a fortune to replace, but she doesn't move from this moment. It's an eternity that passes so breathless between them before the admission breaks the air between them, the faint red beep of recorder catching a solitary word:“Yes.”--It might not be the best time to focus on the Kryptonian concept of soulmates when all of National City is bursting into song, but it's a subject that Kara Danvers can't seem to fly fast enough to get away from. Unfortunately, neither can Cat Grant.Supercat fic set post Season 2. (Oh, yeah, and it's maybe a musical).





	1. Hard Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is set post Season 2 (sorry, I haven't seen any of Season 3 and just finished shamelessly bingeing all of it on Netflix). I'm a little late to the party, but I thought it was a bummer that Flash got a crack!tastic Musical episode, even if Supergirl was in it, so...why not give Supergirl one, too? With a whole hell of a lot of Cat Grant for good measure. 
> 
> This will be unnecessarily long and far too involved for such a crack!fic. (It's going to be a doozy)
> 
> Please **PLEASE** for all future chapters listen to the song provided at the top in the links. 
> 
> This chapter: [ Hard Times ](https://youtu.be/AEB6ibtdPZc) by Paramore.
> 
> Translations for all Krypton (usually in Italics during the narrative) at the bottom:

**Chapter 1: Hard Times**

\--

For the first time in a long time, it’s unexpected, so maybe that’s why it throws Kara so much.

Cat Grant, hands on her hips, voice even, simply stating the fact that her one-time assistant and for all intents and purposes _friend_ Kara Danvers is _Supergirl_ without a hint of accusation or question.

“There’s no reason for you to hide it, anymore.”

The revelation isn’t what’s unexpected, but the way Kara’s chest clenches is.

This familiar office has always reminded her of her mother’s study with its large views of the city and a powerful woman perching on a desk, but lately it’s become a bit of a solace. A hideaway. Not like her cousin's 'friend's' cave...a hideaway like Clark’s apartment, littered with pictures he’s taken of friends and family and Lois (who's always been _more_ ). She’s spent more time in Cat Grant’s office on this sprawling couch than she has in her own apartment--empty and so large it’s suffocating--the past few months. The past year, even. And it's hard to reconcile when the shift actually took place. 

Lunches every week (Cat had brought her lunch, first, with surprisingly little pretense, as if there was this unspoken, inspiring speech about _Connection_ and _purpose_ on her lips that was never unleashed) turned into coffee every morning (Kara stopped by Noonan’s, anyways--what was picking up an extra favorite for Ms. Grant?) and eventually, somehow, Kara started coming to the office to work on her days off instead of the DEO’s long, well-lit corridors, preferring the print of some tangible truth to watching J’onn and M’gann or Alex and Maggie.

Not that Kara hasn’t been happy for them but--

But it’s hard, sometimes. So she started coming here and one of those hard days, she happened to walk by Cat’s office, unsurprised by the sight of a slouched form feverishly working over a desk. Like Cat always was--not always slouched, but always  _here_ \--and for some reason, that night Kara felt like Cat had some kind of spy beacon of her own, always shining when Kara needed an ear. But she hadn't gotten an ear. She got this quiet, knowing look and a place to work in silence without Alex being so... _hesitant_ (Kara really hates Alex's new...worried of hurting her thing, when Kara should be literally worried of breaking her sister, not the other way around) or, worse, memories. Kara really hates the memories. So before either of them knew it, sparse, random working sessions became...often. Almost nightly. Kara sitting in the couch her knees brush against, now, and Cat drumming nails absentmindedly along a desk. 

Sometimes, they never even worked, at all, and Kara learned the sound Cat's laugh makes when it breaks against the smooth surface of a desk.

They started talking more. Open. Cat never said anything when Kara disappeared at the sound of sirens and Kara never said anything when gentle hands tucked Carter in on the couch. Somewhere, the lines between her Supergirl conversations and her Kara Danvers conversations with the older CEO became blurred. Cat Grant became more than a mentor--she became a friend.

A confidant.

A...a person who Kara was trying to bring an old DVD copy of _Hercules_ to (even though she’s pretty sure Cat might not even have a DVD player in her house, anymore) so that Carter can watch a few good Disney movies before his teenage years take him down what she’s so hoping is not anything like Alex’s punk rock days. So she’s definitely not sure how they got here, breaking whatever agreeable silence they had between them--

“How in the world you possibly thought you could keep a secret from me when you’re the walking personification of Williams’ syndrome, I have no idea.” Kara is unsure whether her mouth pops open (sadly very much like a goldfish, eyebrows knitting and a solitary finger raising in weak protest) at the insult of her sunny demeanor (which...might be as good as an actual diagnosis as far as her boss is concerned)...or the casual distaste with which Cat drops a purse that’s worth five-times her ex-assistant’s monthly take-home on her plush office couch. Either way, Kara knows there was never a chance for a rebuttal--there never is with Cat Grant--and it’s not long before a wrist flicks backwards in gesture, heels clicking across, a chair scraping against hardwood in a familiar, predictable symphony. Predictable--the click of a pen as perfectly-manicured fingers hold a long, thin line by the tips of it, one nail curving along each end. It’s as close as Cat Grant gets to “Whatever”--visual apathy--like word-sized bullets bounce right off fashionable shoulders without a second-thought.

Heels tap as they settle into place on the floor and Cat’s ever-even heart settles with them.

It sort of really isn’t fair that Kara's still settled by the noise. It's something that makes sense. Even with the storm raging outside, Kara could pick out this particular routine in any one of Maggie’s line-ups. (If they had line-ups for sounds, anyways). It’s nice to know, even with almost two years, now, between them of growth and diving, Cat Grant is still a creature of habit.

“It’s naive and almost cute in that infuriatingly disgusting, cloying way. Like Bambi in that Disney movie mourning over his recently fallen mother woodkin, or that time Jane Fonda tried to proposition me into a threesome with her boorish director husband.” Cat peers at her over the edge of thin glasses, Kara’s arms crossing like a fortress of solitude over a stomach that’s still a little sore from her cousin pounding into it with really, really big fists, months later. Or maybe she just still hasn’t gotten used to the memory of it.

The crinkle between Kara’s brow deepens.

True to the many times she’s suggested it, Cat Grant apparently only survives off of prada and misogynists’ tears, not air, because she definitely hasn’t breathed for the past two minutes. (Maybe Winn's right. Maybe she really  _does_ breathe through her skin like a lizard. Or was it a frog? No. No way...probably. Not that Kara would mind another alien around, but Cat's skin is way too flawless and bright to be scaley--). “Only both of _those_ had merit as life lessons. Tall tales of grandeur and triumph. Bambi was romanticizing loss and death. Jane Fonda was romanticizing my bone structure and undeniably intoxicating personality--which is enough of a life lesson in and of itself, though the night was certainly a revelation-- _you.”_ Cat shakes her head. “Were just romanticizing what I can only assume is some kind of misguided notion of heroism and self-sacrifice.” The pen clicks and Kara sucks in a sharp breath for the both of them, eyes flicking down to the movie and papers in her hand before settling somewhere just along Cat’s shoulder.

“Well, okay, while that was a really... _really_ long and kind of...weird...comparison that I’m not really sure I wanted to hear about,” Kara raises a hand in the air, other hand fidgeting with glasses, arm full of papers clutched protectively in her fingers eerily similar to how James holds onto anything, these days. Like it’s a shield. “With the whole…” A wave of her hand in useless gesture, “Jane Fonda thing, I do not--” Hey eyes flit around the office, like she’s expecting every single one of her coworkers to press their ears against the glass even though it’s dark and there’s only two of them anywhere in ear shot, Snapper happily (well, happy for _Snapper_ ) occupied in the press room two levels down. A voice lowers in a strained breath, “I do _not_ know what you’re--” Her throat clears, shoulders straightening as she comes closer to the desk, chin tipping defiantly up like the Kryptonian she’s trying so hard not to be associated with, “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Ms. Grant.”

A singular eyebrow raises in response.

A beat, voice invoking a hint of passion, “And I do not have _misguided_ notions of heroism and self-sacrifice. I...I value justice, and truth, and--”

“And look lovely in blue.” It’s drawled--immediate--and Ms. Grant doesn’t look interested, let alone convinced. Kara’s seen people materialize out of thin air (both lost and met them, this way)--has traveled across an ocean of stars and has relocated entirely planets. She’s gone across dimensions and ended more world domination plots than she can count in any language she knows combined, but she still has _no_ clue how Cat Grant can manage to make her feel so thoroughly chastised, frustrated, and blindsided at the same time. Like she’s a hero and a child, all in one. “Really, Kara…” A sigh, and there’s this moment that’s a little unexpected--new. Cat reaches up and folds her glasses, black frames dangling in a small hand that’s built empires and destroyed dictatorships with the same pen now sitting on her desk before quietly standing.

There’s a gentleness that Kara’s always known was there, but has been tempered by the quiet brush of Bhutan wind. Like a mountain that’s formed in granite, jagged edges on the outside. Like the wind has gently brushed its fingers against the north face of Cat’s rasping voice for so long that the stone has started to chip and smooth underneath.

“Ms. Grant--” She doesn’t even know why she protests, stepping forward, fingernails tearing the papers in her hands with crescent moons, eyes firmly planted on the plush carpet beneath her feet. Months ago, it took Cat all of five minutes and two phone calls to move James’ things out of her office--

(Kara had ran across the hall and tried to look like she was _trying_ and _struggling_ when she saw Eve tasked with the fire-worthy task of having to drag all of the weights out of the office by herself when the movers were three minutes too late. Kara shot Cat a look that made the older woman smirk over the rim of her coffee cup, a faint shrug of one elegant shoulder following as Kara rushed to help. At least Cat hadn’t informed her that it wasn’t her job, anymore. Eve gave her a baffled look when Kara dragged them all out, taking what she thought was enough time but decidedly wasn’t, letting out a heavy whoop of, “Woo! These...weight things sure are heavy aren’t they! Sheesh.” There had been a long stretch of silence before Kara yelped: “Pilates.” and ran back towards Snapper just to avoid Cat’s knowing look.)

\--and Kara’s knows she’d missed this lavish carpet like an old friend, years spent memorizing its every fiber when she would avoid a strong gaze, just like this. Some things don’t change, at least.

“I’m not arguing over whether or not you believe in truth and justice, Kara.” The voice is closer and when Kara’s eyes slowly move upwards, Cat’s in front of her. “I’m even content to play this charade with you a little longer, if it’s what gives you a sense of peace.” It’s enough of a concession for Kara’s fingers to ease their grip, “Because, as we both know, peace for a public figure is a breath of fresh air in our overwhelmingly disaster-fraught city. Fame is as much of a curse as it can be a useful tool...”

“I--” Kara’s eyes close, heart beating faster in her chest.

“As little as I saw it before I left, maybe Catco is your Bhutan. But,” There it is, again. That softness. That open, quiet softness. Kara knows Cat Grant like the back of her hand--she knows every bit of the symphony that plays out in this office, like a ritual--but she would need another twelve years of sleeping in a pod with a voice like this on loop in her dreams to get used to the way her old boss’ words gently dip. It’s a feeling she knows the name of in another language, but never knew its counterpart in English. It’s...comforting. It’s like going home and curling under a blanket with a tub of ice cream or watching Alex smile across a bar when she hears the sound of Maggie’s footsteps, just _knowing_ she’s there without looking. It’s like the sound of the flowers dancing in the wind outside of Argo City in their greenhouses. It’s like watching Cat watch Carter sleep.

What’s the word?

Kara mindlessly places her half-finished article on the nearby table, distracted, a copy of _Hercules_ sliding from on top of the table onto the floor.

It’s expected comfort--it’s--there’s no equivalent. There can’t be.

 _Wailagehd_ _._ Like a quiet smile worshipping Yuda.

This ever-new gentleness is _wailagehd._ But hasn’t this office always been, for her?

“Whether or not I know what you do with your nights has no bearing on my safety.” Cat says it so simply, acquiescing, “Not really. We don’t have to discuss it if--”

“No. No, you’re right.”

Maybe it’s the softness, or the tough... _years_ , really (boy, has it been a year or two of unending crappiness), or maybe it’s just the unexpected concession from her usually dog-headed mentor, but Kara’s hand boldly raises up to a slim wrist. She’s looking out of the window of the office, unfocused as she avoids familiar eyes, watching rain batter a large, seamless piece of glass, but she can feel a pulse skip underneath her nails. There’s a flash of light that must be lightning outside, but she can’t focus, on it, feeling a noise gently tickle at the back of her brain, familiar and quiet.

Cat doesn’t make any quips about always being right, like Kara expects--she doesn’t push or pull--she just stares at her like she’s seen the older woman stare at Carter, sometimes, when he falls asleep on the couch, hair mussed and fingers curling in the sofa’s fabric. All Kara can think about is the way Ms. Grant had sat on the edge of a trash can outside of an Alien bar like she was waiting for her, always encouraging her to do the right thing. How Kara knows--just _knows_ \--sometimes Cat waits for her in this office, some nights, to come around the corner with decaf lattes and a sheepish smile.

“You’re right.” Kara murmurs, again. Her breath quivers as it fills her lungs and expands her shoulders out into the strongest stance she can muster, gently removing the glasses from the perch on her nose.

She doesn’t look into Cat’s eyes, but she can feel her, and out of every scenario that had played in her mind, it...never really went like this. It’s anticlimactic and there’s no real feeling of relief. It just...is.

“I--” She chokes on the air like how Mon-El did before his hand pressed against the glass of a fogging pod and she feels Cat’s heart pick up speed. Their eyes finally meet and Kara knows. It’s never had anything to do with safety. “I wish I could be who you think I am, Cat. I do.”

Older fingers curve around a shoulder and if someone was standing outside of the office, they might confuse the pair for dancing, haloed by the dimly lit skyline, Kara’s fingers wrapped around a wrist and Cat’s fingers tucked about a shoulder.

“But I’m not. I’m sorry.” Without another word Kara dons her glasses like a family crest and turns on her heels, not bothering to pick up the clutter she’s left on an always-tidy desk.

“Oh, Kara.” She hears the murmur when she’s at the elevators, “You already are.”

Ignoring the stinging in her eyes, she flies out of the window, instead, missing the sound of the elevator dinging, a small ball of blue rolling out almost innocently, unmanned, from its open doors.

She misses the music of Cat’s sigh--of the clicking of her pen before her chair scratches, again, the sound of clinking ice in a glass and the faint hum of music in the back of her throat, thoughtless and unknowingly provoked.

She misses the sound of a gasp as the ball rolls further and further before a hiss releases a watercolor of blue mist into the air. She misses the thud of a shoulder--a hip--an arm--the dull plop of a glass hitting the floor, liquor seeping into a white carpet and a worn copy of _Hercules_.

\--

“So what you’re saying is, she totally knows.” Alex Danvers doesn’t shovel a mouthful of pad thai into her mouth like her ever-graceful sister, but she wields a pair of chopsticks just as well as she does a gun and is making careful, precise work of the takeout container resting on her knees, legs draped over the lap of a lump of talking blankets.

The response to the statement is a groan, muffled around a good five potstickers, blankets peeling off when Kara flops backwards on the couch, pulling a pillow over her face. “--otally knows.” Is all that’s heard through the fabric before the pillow is launched through the room, mindless and maybe a little dangerous. Even a pillow thrown hundreds of miles an hour can leave a dent in sheetrock but...oh well, Kara’s never getting her damage deposit back on this place, anyways.

Alex’s eyes flick over to the dull thud before settling back on her sister, mildly protesting because the trajectory of the fuzzy blue pillow was awfully close to something near and dear to her heart, “Hey, watch the Jack’s.”

“Sorry.”

“So how did this happen again?” Alex shakes her head and Kara leans back up on her elbows, swallowing less from the food and more from the healthy dose of skepticism in a familiar voice, “You really just walked into her office and she laid it on you?”

“Yes!” A moment passes, chopsticks hanging limply in the air--almost annoyingly knowingly--as Alex looks at her. “Okay, no.” Adding with a vindicated point, “But almost. I...” Eyes close, playing back the scene, “I went in to talk to her. I...you know how I…” A breath. She promised Alex she would stop insisting she’s fine--especially when Alex knows. She always knows. A quiet admittance: “It’s been a hard couple of months. And how Cat's been...helping.”  

Wordlessly, Alex’s hand snakes down from the takeout and slides through fingers. Squeezes. And there’s that feeling, again--something more familiar and less new, but ever constant-- _wailagehd._ Surmising, “You went in to get one of her infamous Cat Grant pep-talks.” Alex knows of the ever-changing landscape between mentor and junior journalist.

“And I just...it was something so--it was so anticlimactic, Alex.” Kara admits, shifting up, gently rearranging Alex as she does, hovering barely an inch off of the couch as knees tuck up by her chest. She grabs a stuffed cat from the couch-- _Streaky_ \--settling the small, childish thing by her chest “She made a joke about Supergirl and I--”

“You tried to play it off. Which...definitely wasn’t convincing. Never convincing.”

“Hey, I can be convincing.”

“Uh huh.”

Kara steals a potsticker off of the edge of a soy-sauce stained takeout box for that.

“Hey! Get your own--” Alex shoves her shoulder but it’s swallowed with literal superspeed. Kara must be a real piece of work tonight, because Alex just lets it go instead of trying to shove her off of the couch, instead curling an arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. How pitiful must she look? “You’re a bottomless pit. So...it just happened? She made a patented snide remark, called you out, and you’re saying she just...knew?”

“Yeah. I didn’t tell her, but I took off my glasses, and I just...I felt it, Alex.” There’s a long moment of silence before Kara admits. “I think she always knew.”

“Wow.” Alex looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking her head and picking back up her chopsticks, slurping up a noodle.

“Yeah. Wow.”  

“I’m not surprised. James said she knew it was him immediately. She’s always been Supergirl’s biggest Champion but she’s smart. J’onn tried to recruit her into the D.E.O a few months ago, remember?” Alex raises her eyebrows and Kara snorts.

That’d been a fun week.

Alex continues, waving a singular chopstick, “And I _always_ told you those glasses--”

“I know, I know, the glasses don’t do anything.” Kara adjusts the glasses perched on a crinkling nose for more than just effect...it's out of habit. They aren’t just a disguise--the glasses have been as much a part of her as the crest. It’s kind of humbling sometimes, when she remembers.

Kara’s coming to the point where she’s donned the glasses longer than she’s ever worn the crest of the house of El.

“Wait.” Blue eyes slit, “Why don’t you sound all...older sister, commanding voice of doom-y about this? Aren’t you upset that Cat knows?” Brows knit, a telltale crease forming between them. A squeeze of a shoulder is her answer, a small, almost perceptible shake of the head tipping hair in front of dark eyes.

“After all Cat did with Rhea…” Alex is careful with her words, Kara can tell--cautious not to mention Mon-El or the word _Daxamite_. It’s funny, really. Years ago she heard Daxamite and felt irrational anger--unfounded and shamefully biased--and now it still spikes the same fury in her chest, but far less righteous. Kara feels fingers dipping up a tilted chin, her sister’s ever-knowing palm gently guiding eyes upwards. “After the fact that you've been spending every night at your office--don't think I don't know about that--for months? And after what you’ve told me about how she’s grown, and everything you’ve said she’s done for you...don’t get me wrong, I’m not okay with the lady that made your life a living hell for two years, but...people change. That _article_ you wrote with her last month? You’ve always taught me to give them a chance, and Cat Grant’s always been in your corner.”

“Okay, today’s officially weird. You’re telling me you’re fine with Cat Grant, Queen of the Media, knowing I’m Supergirl?” The rephrasing shows it's Kara's turn to be skeptical and Alex raises two hands in defense.

“I’m just saying that she _asked_ you about it, didn’t she? Think about it, Kara. She didn’t publish it in the paper--”

“She doesn’t have any sources corroborating it.” Kara denies because Cat Grant is many things and none of them encompass her being unethical or ill-sourced. “Cat can’t use herself as her own source, and no one else--”

“Are you sure about that?” Alex pushes, dropping the take-out container on the table in lieu of placing both hands gingerly on hovering knees. “You know I love you, but you’re about as subtle as a stack of flying bricks. So many people know by this point that it’s a nightmare to contain at the DEO.” The words aren’t malicious, just factual, but Kara can’t help but shrink back a little bit, wincing, “Cat Grant could verify with sources if she wanted to. She hitched a ride with the _president_ , Kara.”

That point is a little hard to remiss.

“Besides, it’s not like she said anything about running a story or threatening you this time, did she? Maybe you’re right--maybe she has change…” Alex trails off, eyes narrowing, protective, “She _didn’t_ say anything about running anything, right?”  

“I...don’t know. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

“Kara.” _Now_ Alex has a hint of admonishment in her voice.

“She won’t.” There’s such sincerity and determination--all _Supergirl_ and  _Kara Danvers_ \--that, surprisingly, Alex just nods. Maybe Kara’s finally had a long enough track record of believing in the right people for her jaded sister to start to see the silver lining.

“Then she won’t.” 

Kara is sure Alex is going be hovering very, very close to Catco tomorrow morning, despite the agreement.

“She won’t.” Kara says again--certain. The brows knit further and hands squeeze hovering knees tight enough for Kara to feel it. “It’s just…”

“That’s not what’s bothering you.” It's a revelation--a quiet, sincere, concerned statement--and she can't look at her sister anymore. “The fact that she knows isn’t what’s throwing you, is it?”

_You already are._

Kara hears it on repeat in the back of her mind and she hates that all she can feel is the faint brush of Mon-El’s breath against her lips before she let him go. She’s forgetting what it felt like to wake up next to him in the morning like how she started to forget what the edges of her mother’s eyes looked like when they crinkled up in a smile. She still can’t remember her laugh, all she can remember is that her mother was full of them--full of life--and now….

_Now..._

Is Mon-El laughing, up in the endless abyss he wandered through before he found his way to her? Is her mother laughing with him? Is it wrong to want the suspicion rattling in the back of her skull to be right?

“Kara.” Alex’s voice is impossibly gentle, curving around her ear and settling there, and Kara can’t help but lean further into her. Her tears have worn this couch so much it's become constantly soggy, like a sweatervest left in a washing machine too long. “Hey.” Arms wrap around her and Kara knows that her fingers curl so tightly in the fabric of Alex’s shirt that it rips at the threads, but her sister just holds her.

“I’m--”

“If you say fine I’m going to throw you off the couch.” Alex warns, lips brushing over the crown of her head, “You can’t keep bottling all of this up.”

Kara just holds her closer and doesn’t know how to explain to an unknowing, caring mind that when Mon-El pressed his hand against the glass of the pod that all she could think about in that moment--the only thing she’ll never forget--is that she remembers how the glass of that pod feels on the other side.

She doesn't know how to explain why she wanted Cat to be the one to paint the word of a planet, because it's becoming clearer and clearer like stars fading underneath the weight of a blinding yellow sun that Cat--

A nose is buried in Alex's neck when the second flash of blue light crackles through National City's skyline, and before either one of them can register it, they're both off of the couch, Kara's arm reflexively stretched out in front as Alex reaches for her gun. A moment later, a loud noise booms through the sky--inexplicable and _vast_. It sounds familiar--like the sound barrier being split in two by someone going faster than a plane, or like Barry’s feet are rushing through the sky.

It sounds like the fabric of sound and time is being torn apart, the air crackling from the divide.

“Well that’s never good.” 

Kara’s arm wipes underneath her eyes, sisters sharing a look as Alex tips her discarded (but never far) cell phone up to her lips. When the second crack sounds, all of the glasses in the small apartment rattling and quaking in response, Supergirl hurtles up into the sky, scanning the horizon, a flash of blue and red as her glasses tuck themselves firmly by her side, buttoned shirt discarded by a couch in a gust of air.

The noise grows louder and louder and louder--pounding between aching ears as she climbs--and Kryptonian features steel as she watches a blue mist roll from the top floor of the Catco building down into the streets below. It’s billowing and smooth, rolling over all of National City in a steady stream, like a waterfall filling a pond.

The next boom isn't isn’t outside, it’s in her--

“Alex, what’s--”

Hands snap up to ears, fingers curling in blonde locks, a piercing pain causing a sharp white light by her eyes and Kara doesn't realize she's screaming, floating in the air above her apartment.  

She feels the vibration of Alex talking in her ear--recognizes her voice, loud and alarmed--but all she can hear is that same pitch, that same growing, suffocating pitch rising like someone gave the guy with the Jumanji drum free reign of her skull. Kara starts to sway in the air, cape billowing, and feels her muscles start to ache, chest starting to weaken. It’s like Kryptonite--

No. It’s like...that time in the bar. With--with--Mon…

Mon…

El.

_Star. Child of the stars. Kal-El. Mon…_

No, no, she’s not drunk--she’s--

A shake of the head, trying to clear her mind, thinking of Alex behind her and--Catco.

Cat.

The floor where the smoke is coming from--she--Kara has to--

Has to--

Kara doesn’t feel herself hurtling down towards the streets below, but she lets out a gasp of realization as the sound overwhelms her, filling all of her senses. She can taste it--can smell it--can hear it--can _feel it_. Suddenly, with clarity and a sense of dread as she blinks, trying to focus on where she knows Cat’s office is as she falls…

_\--Young fingers tracing along string--a youthful smile--an innocent curiosity--music like--_

**_Khahzhor._ **

“Kara. Kara!” Alex is screaming but Kara can’t hear her.

“ _Ye_.” Kara murmurs the rare-used nickname, owlishly blinking up at the skies, seeing the stars swim in her vision. "Can you hear it?" Can Cat? Somewhere up there, can Mon-El? Kal? Her parents? Astra? “It’s beautiful.” She knows what this noise is. What this feeling is. Her body crashes down into the street below as the city becomes a blur.

_I keep on falling--_

“ ** _KARA--”_ **

It’s a violin, a singular note piercing through the sky. The noise ends the moment Kara hits the ground, rubble scattered around the red of her cape, the same color as the gentle drip from her ears.

\--

It’s a faint beat--happy and up up and away--trickling on the tips of her ears like a faucet that’s been left on, dripping down into her subconsciousness.

_\--wake up fine--_

Eyelashes flutter, slivers of blue unfocused as they’re slowly revealed, dim light causing her to blink a few times before she can focus. A groan. 

_\--me that I’m alright, that I ain’t gonna die--_

Arms shake as Kara struggles to raise herself up, neck slowly craning upwards with a wince. She feels like she’s been hit with a truck. A giant, loud truck. “Guess I didn’t stick the landing.” It’s a groan as she stumbles forward, realizing that she’s...oh, she’s definitely in a hole. A huge hole. A hole the size of Cat's apartment building.

_\--All that I want is a hole in the ground--_

She peers upwards, wiping sweat and hair from her face and...blood. Is that blood? Alex is going to kill her. Fingers push through hair, shaking her head as her senses try to focus, one by one filtering in. 

_\--You can tell me when it’s alright to come out--_

Vision. It’s...dark. But there’s light. Daytime?

_Hard times, gonna make you wonder why you even try--_

Taste. Copper--blood. Dirt. Gross.

_Hard times, gonna take you down and laugh when you cry--_

Sound...wait, what?

_These lives--_

Are those...is that music? Is someone playing music? Is there a parade? It’s faint and Kara raises a finger into her ear, shaking vigorously like it'll cause all of the rattling pieces in her skull to still.

_And I still don’t know how I even survive_

It gets a little louder, but something still isn’t right. Did she blow out her powers? Or is she just injured--she can’t hear but it sounds...it sounds like--

_Hard Times_

Okay, that's definitely music.

_Hard Times_

Hands settle on hips, still a little disoriented as she looks upwards, willing herself to fly up, but she’s...exhausted. So that's a giant 'no' to powers.

_And I’m gonna get to rock bottom--_

A rock tumbles from the edge of the hole she’s barreled her way into, gracefully landing on top of Kara’s head.

 _“_ Oof!” Fingers immediately snap up to massage the now-sore area, glaring up at the edge of the cliff high above her. Okay. What did Alex train her do to? Take in the situation, first. Assess the threat. So she’s in a hole. A large hole. But it’s not the worst hole she’s been in. Think, Kara. Think--

_Walking around with my little rain cloud_

And like the small little rock’s dislodged something in her brain--or set something right--Kara jumps with a start, remembering the smoke billowing from Catco tower. Remembering the city being engulfed--the sharp noise in her ears. Cat was probably still up there when whatever that was went off. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s scrambling forward, hands running along the rock and rubble, looking for hand holds.

She looks up. It’s not...that bad. Okay, it’s pretty bad.

_Hanging over my head and it ain’t coming down_

“Alex?” She tries but her earpiece obviously isn’t working. The fall must’ve done more damage than she realized. A breath, bolstering her shoulders, calling on the strength of the emblem below her chin.

_Where do I go?_

Kara channels Cat Grant when she takes a deep breath and murmurs, "Alright, then, Kiera--up, up, and away."

_Gimme some sort of sign_

Without another word, Kara starts climbing upwards, really, _really_ wishing she’d actually taken Alex up on that time she tried to bond with her over rock climbing. But given all Alex really wanted to do was watch  _Maggie_ climb upwards, Kara had stupidly passed up an apparently very, very valuable life skill for someone who could fly. Despite all of those times she said it wasn't. 

_You hit me with lightning, maybe I’ll come alive_

The higher she gets, muscles aching and head pounding, the louder the music is. It sounds like...a chorus. Like so many voices. It’s wonderful--beautiful--

_Hard times, gonna make you wonder why you even try_

“Wait, is this…”

_Hard times, gonna take you down and laugh when you cry_

She listens for a few seconds.

_These lives, and I still don’t know how I even survive_

_Hard times--Hard times--_

“Who blasts Paramore by a hole Supergirl--” Kara places the music, trying to focus on the whole climbing and not falling thing, hand slipping. “Woah.”

_And I gotta hit rock bottom_

Another rock falls, hitting her on the head, and it’s all she can do not to fall back down into the abyss. “Oof!” A sharp, frustrated huff before she swings her arm back up, scrambling to take an uneasy hold, and does all she can do--keeps climbing.

It gets louder and louder with each pull, rocks falling underneath her, scrambling in a torn suit, gasping for air--

_Tell my friends I’m coming down_

_We’ll kick it when I hit the ground_

_Tell my friends I’m coming down_

_We’ll kick it when I hit the ground--_

She can see the light, getting brighter, nails scratching at busted pavement and rock, pulling herself over the edge, panting as she flops (ungracefully) onto the ground beside a very large, very long, very Supergirl-shaped-hole. 

_When I hit the ground--when I hit the ground_

_When I hit the ground--when I hit the ground_

A few seconds of panting on the ground, gasps breaking against the morning sun, allows Kara a moment to let all of her senses fill in fully, far away from a deep, dark pit, heart pounding in her ears. It’s only after a few more seconds that she realizes that it’s not music coming from a boombox, it’s music coming from--

_Hard times--_

A woman is dancing on the top of a car--

_Gonna make you wonder why you even try--_

The woman leaps into the air, two men behind her catching her as they twirl her, both of their voices creating a symphony in harmony.

_Hard times--_

Another woman across the street kicks her briefcase across the stopped traffic like it’s been choreographed, a man picking it up and tucking it under his arm, spinning around.

_Gonna take you down and laugh when you cry--_

A group of people slide from between two taxis, raising their hands up in the air to catch another set of suddenly dancing citizens.

They’re dancing. They’re all...dancing. Singing.

_Hard times--Hard times--_

“Oh no.” Kara murmurs, eyes owlishly blinking at the sight in front of her as she shakily stands, knees weak, realization settling awful and thick in her chest. She’s exhausted and she’s not sure what's worse, the fact that she doesn't have her powers, or the fact that everyone's apparently burst out into song, music mysteriously sounding through the skies with no source--

_Hard Times--_

The whole street has erupted in song, briefcases and papers thrown in the air, all of them striking the same pose as their eyes stretch up to the sky like they’re praising Rao.

She can see the headlines, now, Snapper trying to be witty but succinct:

_Sondheim’s Revenge: National City’s Musical Curse_

“Not again.”

_Hard Times--_

**And I gotta hit rock bottom!**

They all sing in unison, Kara swaying before she falls to the ground, the sound of the music fading from her ears as her eyes roll in the back of her head, missing the sight of her sister running towards her.

“Oof!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more important questions, though:
> 
> Was Cat's carpet stained? Did it stain the copy of _Hercules_? Because those vault copies are HARD to find my friend. Hard to find. Is Alex going to regret never taking those Square Dancing lessons on Earth Birthday? 
> 
> Will her ballet training come into the fold? 
> 
> Also, _far_ more relevantly...does jello wiggle when no one's there?
> 
> More questions to be brought up and probably never answered in chapter two of--  
>    
>  **Supergirl: An (Unfortunate) Musical!** ...which was renamed to something more serious a month later.
> 
> ****
> 
> ** **Kryptonian Translations:** **; **[Source](http://kryptonian.info/doyle/dictionary.html)**
> 
> * _Wailagehd_ : Fullness, Intensity, Repleteness, Richness, Satiation, Wholeness. **Noun** P: [wa͡ɪ.læ.gɛd]. Kryptonian: wålAged
> 
> * _Waila_ **Concept to be explained fully throughout the chapters. Don't want to ruin it.**
> 
> * _Khahzhor_ : Sing; **Verb** P: [xɑ.ʒoɹ]. Kryptonian: haZö. 
> 
> * _ie (ye/je)_ : Sister/sibling (gendered: feminine); **Noun** P: [je]. Kryptonian: IE. Pronounced "Yay/Je" this is Kara's obvs nickname for her Sister. It'll get a lot of use.


	2. Tick Tock: Time On My Hands For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. I've been writing this in my free time (which has become of serious short supply, lately) and I've been utterly surprised at the serious length this has become off the page. I've got plans for this crack!baby, yes I do. 
> 
> I've updated the previous chapter, a bit, and am changing the story's Title/Summary due to a very wise suggestion from a previous reviewer (shoutout to slightly anonymous user _Redmoon_ )
> 
> I'll try to be better about updating from now on! As will be commonplace in the future, translated Kryptonian will be on the bottom and the songs used will be here:
> 
> Jazz Compilation at the start:  
>  **Bill Evans & Chet Baker **\- _[The Legendary Sessions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctuG_wo1Zkk)_
> 
> To follow:
> 
>  **Ke$ha** \- _[Tik Tok](https://youtu.be/iP6XpLQM2Cs)_
> 
>  **Dixie Chicks** \- _[I'll Take Care of You](https://youtu.be/a5wsXoZBnuE)_

**Chapter Two:**

**Tik-Tok: Time on My Hands**

\--

_Kara Zor-El :al: Danvers_

_Two Weeks Ago_

_National City, Earth-38_

_Memory Status: Strong_

 

The piano trills along the edges of walls like a secret knock at a back-door bar decades ago during Prohibition, the scent of alcohol and ink lingering in the air as soft steps guide a junior reporter along the twists and turns of Catco’s brilliant, white hallways. It’s a familiar noise to perking ears and smiling lips, but it’s not familiar to many. It’s an even rarer sight than sound that greets Kara when she leans against the doorframe of her ex-boss’ office, watching the way the midnight oil burns in the air, city highlighting golden hair. Watching the way legs stay so casually crossed, one foot bobbing in beat in the air like a lazy conductor as soft jazz plays from an old record player (well-hidden) in the back of an immaculate office.

Jazz.

Cat Grant, when she’s the last in the office, has a habit of sticking to jazz when she can’t think, and a brown bag crinkles as Kara tucks it underneath her arm, happy to take in the missed sight. She’s not the last in the office (a very, very asleep assistant is tucked two floors down, drooling next to negatives of pictures that need to be finished in the morning--that’s a state Kara deeply empathizes with--isn’t that far from a loudly snoring Snapper) but she’s close. It’s late, another victory under a superbelt and another bad guy locked up in a cell without a key. The city is safe and quiet, for now, and Kara lets herself take in the peace of it.

Kara’s seen her like this, before. It’s more secret to the world than Kal’s fortress of solitude--way heavier than a thousand-pound key--but there’s something different, tonight. Kara isn’t looking through squinting eyes, wind whipping through hair miles away, or spying away down a long, long hallway as she watches her boss watch the world. Because maybe more amazingly than the sight, Cat--who knows she’s there; always knows everything, really (is probably the kind of parent who tells Carter that she has eyes in the back of her head and Kara wouldn’t be that surprised if Cat had twenty of them scattered meticulously around National City)--lets her watch, pen writing away at the pad on her desk. Lets Kara Danvers into this small part of her world.

When the song finally fades away, segueing into something gentler than an upbeat trumpet, an immovable object pushes off the door, shoulders wordlessly straightening themselves in this office out of habit, “You’re in a good mood.” Kara boldly notes, setting the takeout bag on Cat’s desk in offer. “Eve’s purse is still on her desk and you’re listening to Coltrane. And here I thought this was a well-kept Cat Grant secret.”

Kara doesn’t elaborate on why she’s-- _Kara Danvers_ \--has been allowed in on the secret club. Cat doesn’t seem fond of elaborating, either. Maybe not everything in her life has to be ridiculously complicated, after all.

“Coltrane.” A hum. Cat looks up over the rim of her glasses, finally, visually acknowledging Kara’s presence. “Who would’ve thought millennials knew musicians outside of meat dresses and Taylor Swift’s latest crush of the week.” Elegant fingers strike something out, a little more serious, tone shifting in a way that makes a back even straighter: “Leave a note for Eve to inform Snapper his latest attempt was less dull than last week’s and that, as much as I hate admitting it, he’s right--we’ll give Johnathan a second shot,” It’s as high of a compliment as Cat’s likely to give ( _less_ dull), another strike, “...but I’ll still have to check this, myself. Have her set up a meeting with Spiegel first thing in the morning. I’ll only have an hour to meet with him before he...” A wave of an unimpressed wrist, “Flies away and does whatever Spiegel does with that frat boy smile of his.” Regardless of the fact that Kara’s no longer an assistant, she’ll write the note. Eve likely won’t get an hour of sleep, tonight, and she doubts Cat will call her current assistant up in the middle of a jazz session. Not like this.

A year ago, it would’ve been surprising the Woman Who Expects it All was mentioning it to Kara now and not expecting Eve to just do it in a moment’s notice at the drop of the hat in the morning, anyways, but it’s not good to squander chances to help out a fellow assistant--Girl code--and a nod is her answer, continuing like Cat hadn’t dropped the string:

“Well,” Kara’s nose wrinkles, voice light, “My sister _does_ like to tell me I’m old fashioned.”

“No,” But Kara can see it--can see the soft way the city highlights the faintest quirk of an edge of a lip like firelight dancing along the tip of a fountain pen. “Your sweaters like to tell people you’re old fashioned. Your sister just has eyes.”

“Hah.” Teeth bite at the edge of a lip, not bothering to hide her smile like the woman across from her, because there’s no insecurity behind her response: “I guess no one has ever said Cat Grant lacked sharp wit. You’re right--”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Maybe they do. But…” A faint twinkle, leaning against a wide desk that’s far warmer than the doorway, “There’s nothing wrong with being a little old fashioned, is there? You know,” Kara’s smile tips, “John Coltrane isn’t _your_ generation, either.”

“No.” Cat admits, “But Metropolis was oddly very stuck in the 60’s, before the far more entertaining _free love_ stage of the 60’s, anyways, and sometimes I miss it.” Cat looks back down at the page, work never finished despite the heels kicked far from her desk, record changing with a faint scratch and _Chet Baker_ and _Bill Evans_ slowly swaying through the office, “It’s nice to have a reminder of the _Planet._ ”

“What do you miss about it?” Kara unwraps the bag she’s brought, pulling out a salad and a rather large stack of burgers for herself. Despite the familiarity, she evidently knows better than to eat it on Cat’s desk, pulling out several napkins to eat it on her lap, instead. (While Alex might argue differently, sometimes, she does _not_ have a death wish). The sound of a chair skittering along wood so that Kara can sit down fits in well with the jazz. “The _Planet_ being stuck in the 60’s? Is it the sweaters?” Her nose wrinkles, again, the edges of her eyes wrinkling with it, “Because you just said _I_ was a daily reminder for you. Do you really need the jazz?”

Cat laughs in beat with a trumpet and a snare--a genuine, quiet thing, and the room warms, heating the nape of Kara’s neck along with it.

“It’s funny, in _that_ aspect, you remind me of Clark Kent.”

Kara chokes on her burger and Cat suddenly looks annoyed at the disturbance, an eyebrow raising.

“Wh--why would you, um. I mean w-why would you say that?” A clearing throat isn’t suspicious, at all, so she moves over to grab the glass that’s recently been set aside for her--does Eve set these aside, or does Cat, at the end of the day?--from the wall bar, filling it with water and pointing towards the bottles in gesture and question. A shaken head in denial to the wordless offer doesn’t stop the not-Clark from choking, still.

Kara drinks half of the glass before continuing.

“I’m just so...surprised. We don’t seem anything alike.” As Alex always says, she overkills it, continuing: “At all. Like, at all. Me? Clark? No way. He’s one of the most respected writers in Metropolis and I’m--” A tongue darts over a lip, laughing and looking down at the suddenly empty glass.

Maybe she got kicked in the head a little too hard, tonight, because she doesn’t remember drinking the last of it.

A hint of truth seeps, as it always does, “Not Clark Kent. Not even remotely close.”

There’s that half-smirk, again--that knowing look in Cat’s eyes before she looks back down at the page--and Kara reminds herself not to wrap her fingers so tightly around the bar that it snaps when she sets down her glass.

“The old-fashioned dress code was what did it. But you’re more alike than you think.” There’s a long moment of silence before she continues, answering the open question: “Perry White always used to play jazz in his office--he still does. I used to hate it and then, like most confusing but wonderful things, I went from hating it to falling in love with it. It’s a mystery when.”

It’s Kara’s turn to laugh--quiet and reflective--glad for the change in subject, releasing the poor, innocent counter and stepping forward.

“Thus with careful devotion, with precise attention to detail, interfering preparation of that which is already prepared--”

“Men tighten the knot of confusion...” It’s batted back, dark eyes almost imperceptibly lighter--almost playful underneath the twinkling lights of a quiet city, like stars of a galaxy--of a home--lightyears away. “...into perfect misunderstanding.” Cat finishes for her, leaning fully back in a chair, a hint of pride in her eyes. It’s a look Kara has come to understand more and more as the years go by. “T.S Eliot. And not even a good one. You’re full of surprising, obscure phenomenon tonight, aren’t you, Kara? It’s like having dinner with David Lynch. With almost as many pauses. And thankfully,” A pointed wave of the pen, “less talk of aliens.”

Kara avoids another choking fit in favor of a laugh, instead, throat still a little dry as she sits back down, shaking her head. “I’m just in a good mood.” The soft smile is something that’s shared before Cat’s back to writing and Kara’s back to eating, comfortable silence filled with a scratching pen and jazz extending between them.

Eventually, all but one of Kara’s burgers are gone, and Cat is done with half of her stack before she says anything, at all:  

“While always raising yourself up to exceed expectations is a very important, driving factor to success, Kara.” Cat’s voice must be gentler from disuse, because that’s easier to explain than the look in a familiar eye, “It’s important to remember you’re not someone else.”

Like everything Cat says, Kara unfortunately takes it to heart and rides on the tails of it--can’t bother hiding the look on her face from it. The soft, open look that Alex tells her she lets out too easily.

It’s moments like this--really, really silly ones--that Kara wonders if triangles and circles were built for each other, after all. It’s a reckless, careless kind of dangerous thought, and wondering if Astra would chide her for it does nothing to stop it.

“What do you miss about it, then?” She’s not deterred, “Being in love with something you used to hate?” Kara’s eyes are bold enough to have downed half a glass of what she had offered Cat an hour ago, not the water she actually drank--bold like there’s a crest lit by the soft light of a desk on her chest--but it’s just Kara, sitting here. No crest. No alcohol. Just a smile and jazz and the way Cat’s hair hangs in front of her face at two in the morning, an untouched salad set beside another half-edited article. “Or _is_ it the 60’s? 50’s? Do you miss the dancing? The dancing looked great. Like so much fun.” A wistful, youthful smile, heart-eyed longing in her voice, “ _An American in Paris_ , romantic kind of great.”

“Maybe.” Cat, a woman who doesn’t seem fond of the word ‘ _maybe’_ (or, Kara knows for a fact, the word _‘stuff’_ ), sets aside her pen and Kara can’t help the look of surprise on her face at hearing it.

Winn told her that Cat Grant was like a Sith, once--she only deals in really well dressed absolutes.

Not like Cat’s seen _Star Wars_. Still. Someday.

“Maybe?” She repeats. Cat shrugs.

“It’s been a long time since I danced.”

“I could help with that.” Maybe the water _was_ tequila (is tequila clear? She doesn’t even know), because Kara stretches out her hand as she stands, an endless white carpet between them, a flicker of realization dawning, “Not the--I didn’t mean to imply the--” She clears her throat and shakes her head, deciding its best not to lie, altogether, sheepishly following up with a nervous shrug because sometimes her mouth implies what the rest of her won’t: “I broke my prom date’s foot in highschool.” In twelve places. “I’m reportedly dangerous when it comes to the romantic dancing. So maybe not that.”

“I’m glad you chose our writing staff and not our Sales’ team, Kara.” But Cat says it like she never thought Kara would be anywhere else--a paper tucked away for a year in a desk--slowly pushing back her chair to stand. Bare feet pad in time as she crosses the distance between them, hand hovering a breath above waiting skin like she’s rethinking over the comment about a broken foot before she takes a waiting hand and Kara feels the breath quake between them. “Sounds like I’m not the only one in a good mood. And confident. You’re not about to start using my elevator again, are you?”

Kara laughs and gently tugs Cat a little closer, a sax spiking her heartbeat in lilting, smooth crescendo, a swallow covering the noise of her glasses rattling as she fidgets with them--sets them back in their place--before her other arm cautiously wraps around a waist. When a far less expensive pair of flats are carelessly discarded, she’s luckily she mentally sighs at the soft plush of the carpet beneath her toes, because Cat would give her such a knowing look at the sound of it.

Kara knows for an actual fact that this carpet cost six months of her rent.

“No. No, that week was a...very, very serious break in judgment. And any rational thinking.” Weakly arguing, “Aaand was years ago and I'm never going to hear the end of it.”

“Clearly.” Cat settles against her chest, both of them quietly swaying, and Kara hears their heartbeats fall in line with their feet. Somewhere along the record--she doesn’t count the seconds or hours or days--Cat’s chin falls down to her shoulder and their feet stop shuffling along puff of white, though their bodies do sway. “Why did you come back?” Cat asks against her ear, breath gently brushing against an earlobe. Clarifying, “You left early, tonight, and there was no reason for you to come back.” Usually Cat doesn’t ask--hasn’t asked for a long time.

Cat stopped asking why Kara knows she’s here, or why she comes, at all, and Kara pulls away just enough to show the surprise clear in her eyes.

“You know why.” Kara argues, hesitancy leaking into her voice when Cat just keeps _looking_ at her--a rough swallow jostling sagging shoulders, “Right?”

“Humor me.” It’s a whisper that dances along her jaw like a green puff of Kryptonite and Kara complies.

“I felt like celebrating.” There’s no elaboration and Cat’s eyes slit the way they do whenever she has a hook worded the precise way--they slit the way they do right before she gets an employee to admit their own shortcomings so that she doesn’t have to bother pointing them out for them--they slit the way they do whenever she catches Carter in a half-truth. It’s not necessarily duplicitous--it’s half amused, half triumphant. It’s...well, it’s Cat Grant.

A look doesn’t get more complicated than that.

An even more complicated display follows, because Cat doesn’t ask why Kara felt like celebrating with her. Instead--

“And you knew I was in the mood to celebrate when there’s a deadline a few hours from now?” Leading question, of course. Like there’s any other question the other woman knows how to ask. A question that isn’t really a question, at all.

“Well,” Kara clears her throat and doesn’t think about it in a way she truly should with Cat--in a way she should be careful in all things with Cat, but just _isn’t_ \--leaning back forward to rest her chin against a temple, trying to ignore the feeling of fingers tangling in the fabric of her shoulders. “I knew you saw the news.” The implication is already pretty _there_ , but she goes on to admit something far more damning: “And...I heard the jazz.”

Heard it when she was nowhere close to the building.

There it is, bare and quiet. Kara feels a rare smile against her neck and blue eyes flutter closed for a few moments--for a few more swaying moments--before pulling away, palm burning from the warm touch and eyes conflicted when she hears footsteps across the hall. The noise is faint but persistent to ever-perked ears (it’s not like there was a pair of lead glasses for her ears) but it’s unmistakable.

Eve, who had fallen asleep two floors down, has a nervous heartbeat as she rounds the hall--like even if she fell asleep a full work-day after she was supposed to leave, she still fell asleep on the job, a fireable offense--and Kara lets out a slow breath as her hands fall. That’s a heartbeat she can relate to.

“I think I just heard the elevator.” Is the vaguest explanation she can think of, neck still warm and deadline sitting unfinished on a desk. Cat clucks her tongue in acknowledgment, reaching over for the remote to stem the soft music, the sound dying out mid-way through a lyric verse. Kara’s fingers itch. It’s difficult to separate two magnets, any infant on Krypton would know that, but the practical side of it feels way more difficult.

“Well,” A breath curls around her ear and Kara suddenly realizes just how close Cat is--just how close they were--and when the shorter of the two pulls away, all very, very unfair smirks and bright eyes, there wouldn’t be enough water on the planet to wet a suddenly-dry tongue. “Remind me to scratch the jazz and play _Prince_ next time you decide to celebrate.” The comment is casual but the look in Cat’s eyes is anything but--it’s dangerous and almost _lecherous_ \--and Kara watches her, confused, until realization sinks in. “Something _lively_.”

Cat hums a few bars of _When Doves Cry_ as she walks back towards her desk and Kara is already trying to calculate how long it would take her to get to the nearest planet with water (she needs _water_ ) that isn’t anywhere near this office when Eve is in view.

The heat from her neck where a smile rested quickly turns into a burn that spreads up to her jaw and despite the fact that she thinks she might be red from chin to blonde locks, she still sets back down on the chair to finish her last burger, ignoring the knowing look an assistant sends them when she comes to pick up her purse.

“Goodnight, Ms. Grant. Kara.” It’s a genuine smile that spreads (even beneath the obvious exhaustion) when Kara happily waves, Eve picking up the small, separate bag that Kara had set on her desk...however long ago, shooting her friend a thankful look. Mouthing _You’re the best._ Kara is sure that the danish she set on Snapper’s desk will go without the thankful look, but will probably be just as appreciated when he wakes up, too. “Do you need anything from me before I--”

Cat is already perched back at her desk, glasses at half-mast on her nose as she focuses on the unfinished proofs when she waves her off. She’s all business, but Kara can tell she’s lighter, and that’s worth the blush. And the desert in her mouth.

Something must possess her because she _knows_ what possession is like, voice thick and smooth as she pipes up, eyes hesitantly skimming up to meet Cat’s down-turned gaze.

“You know, maybe we could…”

A beat and their eyes meet, a slow smile spreading on Cat’s lips.

But first and foremost Kara is a hero and it takes until Eve is halfway down the elevator, dings clicking away when Kara remembers--“Oh _fiddlesticks_!”--and skids along the floor, grabbing a sticky note off of the desk and writing the note Cat had told her down on it, hastily rushing after a falling elevator, pushing open the stairs and rushing down without another word.

Halfway down the building, the jazz doesn’t turn on, but she does hear Cat pop open the plastic of a lunch container with an amused and dangerously content sigh.

“...all that growth and charm, and she still can’t even say ‘fuck’ like a normal person.”

Kara smiles all the rest of the million flights down.

\--

_Present-Day._

_Kara Danvers_

_National City, Earth-38_

_Memory_

 

_Wake up in the m--_

 

Pain is something Kara Danvers is used to, but it’s more of an existential, heart-wrenching kind of thing...not the rip her skull out of her body and smash it against a wall kind.

Which is a little ironic, given the fact that she’s definitely had her skull smashed against quite a few walls.

Actual pain is rare, and still something she adjusts to. So when her eyes flutter open to be greeted by a blinding light and the gentle feeling of a knife using her head as the stretched leather of a drum, it’s not something she’s used to. A groan rattles a dry throat, knees curling up to a chest as fingers shoot up to temples, hands desperately trying to press the offending rhythm out of bones like an overzealous juicer to an orange.

 

_Feeling like P--_

The nausea curls up her throat like a cold snake and when she finally manages to open her eyes, the last sight she expects is her...apartment. Her very bright, unassuming apartment. The rest of her senses slowly filter in as she slowly eases forward to a bend, bones creaking like a rusty door, looking around to take in a...bathtub? Her bathtub. She’s sitting in her bathtub. Fingers slowly raise up to curl in the fabric of a shower curtain as she scrambles forward, bare feet tumbling over the edge and tripping into the nearby counter with a yelp in odd beat, a slow breath exhaling in frustration out of her nose.

Right. Pain. Great. A-Ok.

 

_Grab my glass--_

Hands slap along the counter until she finds what she’s looking for, slowly sliding glasses onto her nose, lead frames bent just slightly at the corner. Fingers raise out of habit to attempt to bend them back, quaking as she attempts and fails, arm weak as it falls uselessly to her side--

 

_Gonna hit--_

Both hands slap again on the counter before raising up to her head, neck rolling as she tries to straighten her back--to stem the pounding--nausea still crawling up her throat. Disoriented, she reaches forward to grab the mouthwash to get the metallic taste off of her tongue--

_Before I l--_

And promptly spits it out into the sink at a foul taste, blinking owlishly down at the bottle carelessly left by her sink. 

_Brush my teeth with a--_

Jack Daniels.

_Bottle of Jack._

“ _Blech--Alex_ ” She sputters, hacking into porcelain, face screwing up and red dripping from her forehead, “Oh, _gross_. Why do people drink?” (And why won’t anyone turn that music down?)

She might have to talk to her sister about a drinking problem. Because why would anyone bring alcohol into the very private space of a restroom? Drinking does not need to happen here. Just sacred, unspeakable things. Her sister--

Her sister. Alex. She can feel her--can sense her--the stumbling continues to the door, snapping it open to glower at She-Who-Drinks who’s waiting there for her in the flourish of a familiar, disapproving sight. Hands on hips and way too much concern to be such a guilty party.

“Kara.” Alex’s voice has a talent for being equally annoyed and concerned at the same time, doctor’s hands immediately snapping up to tend to a wound now dripping down Kara’s nose. Blue winces at the sting, swaying a little,

“Why did you bring us back to--”

“Why did you leave a--”

They both pause. Across the room, Kara hears Winn’s faint ringtone, a phone lost in time. She owlishly blinks and they both try for the second time:

“Why did you--”

“Why did you--”

They both pause again, glaring, and Alex is a little gentler as she brings Kara over to her bedroom window, wrenching it open and Kara realizes the beating in her head is actually a very, very familiar techno beat outside. She stumbles, again, light-headed, familiar arms hoisting her up.

“Hey, hey, I got you.” Alex grumbles, sagging from the weight, “Take it easy, Kara.”

_Don’t stop, make it pop--DJ blow my speakers up tonight_

_I’mma fight ‘till we see the sunlight--_

“Oh.” Kara sags in Alex’s arms, blinking down, mouth sour and eyes widening, memory slowly settling back on her mind like a very, very wet blanket. The climbing and the singing and...the...random people making out and grinding on corners of her building's emergency escape ladder. Wow. And-- “...oh.”

“Yeah.”

“The singing, again.”

“The singing, again.” Alex pipes up, hefting her sister up into her arms just enough to wrap a limp arm around her shoulders.

A groan, pleading, because she feels like she just got through this: “Not the singing again.” She loved the singing, but the denouement of her last act is still fresh in her mind, both her and Barry lying, hands outstretched on cold pavement. 

“Definitely the singing again.” Alex cuts off, heading towards the door, “And we were _at_ the DEO until someone decided to wake up and sing Ke$ha.”

“I wasn't singing. I don’t even have my powers, how could I--oh, down. Down. I need to sit down, I think I’m going to--” Kara’s skin is pale, skidding forward, tugging up the bottom of her shirt to stem any dangerous exhale from her lips. When did she change out of her suit? She’ll never get used to the throwing up, thing--the way it crawls up the back of her throat before settling on the back of her tongue--and Alex’s hand gently brushes through her hair.

“You okay?” A cool cloth is added to the fingers, gingerly smoothing away blood from a pale forehead, taking sweat along with it. It takes more effort than it should to focus on her sister’s face, a chorus of drunk pedestrians singing outside of her window, sunlight dancing along her floor.

_Tick-tock, on the clock, but the party don’t stop--_

Kara nods despite the fact that she definitely isn’t, trying to weakly push her sister away to stand. “Cat--the top floor--”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Calm down.” Alex rests the cloth on Kara’s forehead and the sister leans into it, fingers weakly wrap around a wrist, focusing on the familiar pulse. She hates that she can’t hear it and all she can hear is that pounding _beat_ in the back of her soul, instead. It's like that movie Winn loves--what was it? Oh, right, Jumanji. It's like Jumanji without the elephants. Or Aladdin  _with_ the elephants. 

“What do you mean? How did I bring us here?”

“I don’t know.” Alex admits. “I got you to HQ and you’ve been out, but the moment you woke up, I heard the music and…” A vague gesture, both shoulders shrugging. “We were here.”

“We _teleported_ to my apartment?” Kara clarifies and Alex looks just as ready to answer the question as Kara is to ask it. Neither one of them, however, is surprised. It’s just another Tuesday. (Is it Tuesday?) "That's new." A moment, listening to the chorus outside before asking, "Why aren’t you singing?” A chin tips backwards, curious, holding the washcloth in place over the small wound as Alex moves over to the bathroom, rifling through cabinets to find a small med-kit that has more dust on it than Winn’s ceiling fan.

“Don’t know.” A disembodied voice calls from around the corner, coming into sight a few seconds later, squatting in front of her, awkwardly admitting: “I...have been, though. Everyone has. About everything. There’s no real deciding factors--we can’t isolate any trends, yet.”

“So...for right now.” Kara recaps, “I just woke up in a bathtub to Ke$ha, we teleported here but I don’t have powers, and we’re stuck in a musical? Any face behind the music? Do we know what’s causing it?”

“Nothing.” Alex supplies, removing the washcloth to gently clean the impressive scrape to a disapproving hiss from her sister. “Sit still.”

“Sorry.” Kara’s hands limply fall to her sides, sagging against the wall, “How long was I out?”

“A day.”

“Cat?” She repeats, “I mean...Cat-Co. Is everyone okay?”

“James is there, now. He says everyone’s okay.”

A breath of relief. “Winn? Maggie? J'onn? Everyone else?”

“Everyone’s okay--”

“They’re just...singing? No explosions or bad guys or...anything? Just singing?” That's a fresh change of pace. 

“Yeah.”

Kara sits up straight and nearly knocks out Alex with a head of steel (to a very disapproving tsk from the other girl) eyes wide, “Wait, you’re you, right? Please tell me I’m not stuck in my head again. Is Barry about to show up and start dancing--”

“Wha--stay still. Of course I’m real.” Adding after a reflective moment, "Not like I'd know if I wasn't, though, right?"

“That doesn't really help."

A shrug. "I'm just saying."

I don’t think I can write another cheesy song right now, Alex, my head is--wow, is this really what you have to deal with all the time with hangovers?”

“It is not _all_ the time.” Alex counters and pours out maybe just a little too much from a clear bottle to clean a wound, Kara letting out another small noise through her frown, “Hey, stop looking at me like that. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know.” And Kara does, fingers wrapping around a familiar wrist, “You know, you left a bottle of Scotch by my--”

“That was not Scotch. Whiskey. And it wasn’t me.” A shrug, a crackle of adhesive being ripped, “Maybe you poofed it there, too, when you woke up. Wow, you’re lucky you’re invulnerable, otherwise you would _seriously_ have mental brain damage, with how much you fall, you klutz.”

Kara doesn’t have the heart to shove her shoulder, head perking up as she listens to the song wrap up outside, the chorus of the city immediately filtering in like they’re all casually going back on with their days. As close to normal as National City can be. The city’s stopping singing and they’re...still in her apartment. Kara flops back against the wall, sighing.

“No sightings of the alien that assaulted you, before, either.” Alex continues their earlier conversation as she drops a blood-soaked rag into a small bowl she’d grabbed from the bathroom, wringing it out, explaining like she’s spent a decade explaining the world to the girl in front of her, which she has, “Head wounds always have a lot of blood. You’re okay, promise.”

“I’m in good hands.” Kara agrees.

Alex smiles, continuing, “And the sun lamps weren’t working. So...” Her sister leans back, on crouched feet, a sympathetic look tilting features: “Looks like you’re going to have to get used to being human for now, Supergirl. Until we figure it out.”

A heavy breath, Kara’s hand rubbing along a sore temple, head still searing, “Okay.”

“Hey.” Familiarity comes in the form of a gentle voice, and Kara settles, the drum behind her skull turning into something softer. “Nights are long and dreams are cold,” Alex murmurs and a chin tips back, head rolling against the wall, feeling warm water brush along the outside of a feeling she’s still not used to, realizing the gruff rasp of her sister’s voice has turned into something different, a faint guitar strumming in even fainter brushes of cloth against stained skin. “If they’re all you wake up to. But should you rise with crying eyes--”

Alex wrings out the cloth, again, lips parting as the melody trills along the air like a doting bird, meticulously working against a small cut like it requires both of a surgeon’s hands. “ _Then I’ll take care of you_.”

Blue eyes flutter open, surprised when she realizes that Alex is singing to her--that it feels so natural that she hadn’t even noticed, at all.

“ _So let them talk about us. Let them call us funny things. People sometimes do_ \--” She tosses the rag into the bowl, once more, this time soaked in red and discarded for good, “ _Oh I don’t care as long,_ ” Fingers raise up to slowly swipe cream along with an attentive thumb, “ _As you know I love you. Oh_ .” A slow smile and Kara blinks, swallowing the lump in her throat, unable to help the slow spread of a smile to match, “ _And you know I do. I’ll be there but you might not see me_ ,” A soft blow of breath against the wound, a shiver trailing up a spine spun of steel, Kara’s fingers curling around biceps to hold herself steady as the room spins about them, _“It’s never easy to get through._ ” A band-aid settles its place over a now-thin gash, cleaned and attended to, and Kara blinks away the tears, teeth tucking a lip so that Alex doesn’t notice--so that she doesn’t ruin the moment. “ _But when the laughter dies away then I’ll take care of you._ ”

Alex pulls away fully from her work--something so small and simple, a bandage resting underneath a halo of mussed blonde locks--wiping away the tears from cheeks that she must assume came from the treatment without a word, gently singing:

“ _Darling, I’ll take care of you._ ”

Kara’s hands raise up to curl around Alex’s in soft thanks, squeezing as the music fades, the city’s sounds once more creating a measure of staccato beats between them--horns and sirens and chatter spacing rests and pauses--a hand raising up to brush underneath fluttering eyelashes. The affection is hard to stifle and it's even harder to swallow it down. 

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.” Alex promises, blinking--seemingly surprised when the tears continue from her sister's eyes, sitting back, a little alarmed. It doesn’t take much for Alex to go from over-protective to grabbing her gun and Kara laughs a small choked sound as she catches a wrist, again, stopping her. Only to realize that it was another small cloth to wipe away the tears, not a gun, that her caretaker was reaching for. When did her apartment suddenly become an endless supply of washcloths, anyways? Kara didn't even know she had that many. “What?” Alex presses, brows knit, seemingly unphased by the assumption, raising up a small terry rag to wipe away tears when weak fingers ease their grip, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Kara just tugs her closer with a faint _oomph_ as her sister crumples against her into the wall, whispering against her an ear, glad for the rare opportunity to wrap Alex up so tightly without sending her to the nearest ER, “Nothing’s wrong." And maybe she can't help herself, a little triumphant: "I _knew_ you listened to that Dixie Chicks CD I got you.”

“What?” Horror seems to settle in Alex’s voice after a long moment of realization, but her hands cup quivering shoulders, anyways, returning the hug, “Oh, God, what did I sing?”

“Nothing.” Kara lies, but she’s always been notoriously bad at it, lips brushing against a temple. “I love you, too.” When they pull away Alex smiles--unassuming and small--and nods like it’s no big secret, standing and offering a hand.

When Kara takes it, two scars align, a familiar warmth in the strength, tired form stumbling forward to lean into it, the headache slowly fading into a familiar rhythm. “Thank you.”

“You-- _oomph--_ ” Alex is squeezed to the brink of her eyes popped out a moment later by arms that are strong enough, even without powers, “Ka--I have to--breat--”

“Okay, okay. Enough with the mushy.” Kara relents, releasing gasping sides, smiling and moving over to a nearby clothes rack, the unfortunate realization that she’ll have to get used to doing things the slow way, again, not dampening the creased edges of light eyes.

“Well...you better shower before we get back.” Alex wisely imparts over her shoulders, flopping down onto a couch with a magazine, waving a hand in front of her nose, “It’s pretty bad.” A little more professionally, “Don’t get the bandage wet. Shout if you need help.”

Kara doesn’t even protest, just lovingly smiles at her sister as she makes her way towards the bathtub she woke up in, walking like she just made a mile-long crater into the Earth with her skull.

Maybe this music thing won’t be that bad.

At least this time she hasn’t been shot. Yet.

“Oh, Rao.” Kara murmurs from the bathroom through the rattle of an automatic toothbrush, eyes widening as she stares at her reflection in the mirror, wet hair hanging about shoulders, bandage dutifully dry an hour later, “Please tell me Barry and I don’t get shot this time.”

“What?” Alex calls from the chair.

“Nothing!” Eyes flick over towards the open door and the window, lingering on the towering building across the city, breath leaving in a quiet huff, something else clenching in her chest like her heart's a magnet that she can’t hold far enough away from an invisible pull to break its flying ascent out of her chest. Fingers absently rub at a shoulder as she sets her toothbrush aside, meeting eyes in the mirror, the music fading for a moment as her hands drop. Fingers curl around the counter.

There's no song on her lips or drum to her nails and brows knit as she searches the counter. Was Kal-El right? Her voice is a murmur, covered by the steam of an open shower door, lost to either side of a triangle, down-turned lips forming the peak of a point. Far off in the distance, she can hear a whistle like the steady hum of a heart monitor, unable to drown it out in the running water of a sink or shake the way it feels as it shivers down her spine.

“Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more important questions, though:
> 
> Did Eve slobber on those prints and get fired the next morning? Does Snapper eat anything but danishes? Does Alex have a secret stash of Dixie Chicks CDs? 
> 
> We still have no clue if jello still wiggles when no one's in the room to see it. Maybe Alex can run some experiments.
> 
> More questions to be brought up and probably never answered in chapter three of--
> 
> Supergirl: An (Unfortunate) Musical! ...which was renamed to something more serious a month later.
> 
> ****
> 
> ** Kryptonian Translations:**; 
> 
> There are none this chapter. If you want to see previously-used words, please see the End-Note of Chapter 1.


End file.
